Everybody Loves Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  Only now I wasn’t desperate. I’d just had two weeks of nonstop creative physical intimacy with Arch.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I started making a list, but that seemed unproductive, so I started another list. Make that two.

  Arch

  Unpredictable

  Smart

  Dangerous

  Sexy

  Shady past

  Kind

  Skewed morals

  Beckett

  Stable

  Smart

  Safe

  Sexy

  Commendable past

  Kind

  Solid morals

  “Crap.” Arch had more cons than pros, which made sense, I guess, considering he’s a con artist. “Former con-artist,” I reminded myself. Then I added to his list Doesn’t do relationships.

  If I recalled right—and I usually do—Arch had mentioned Beckett had been married for several years, before his wife left him, which prompted me to add to his list Dumped like me.

  No doubt about it, Beckett was more my old-fashioned, good-girl speed.

  But Arch was the one who made my spirit zoom.

  I blinked down at my lists, noted that I’d doodled hearts and tried on both their last names for size. “How old am I—fourteen?”

  I slammed the diary shut, thinking that was a bad question, because the correct answer was: forty-one. Old enough to know that someday, when the time was right, I wanted to commit to one man. Kind of hard to pledge your heart to someone who doesn’t do relationships. “I’m not even sure if he can do friendship.”

  The shower came on in Beckett’s room. I remembered finding him in his towel two days earlier. I tried not to think of the hard-muscled chest. It didn’t help my confusion at all.

  Brain buzzing, I reopened the diary.

  This is all your fault, Ace.

  And spent the next twenty minutes blasting Arch Duvall and the dark horse he rode in on.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MORNING CAME SOONER than I would have liked, given I’d slept like a kid hopped up on a six-pack of Red Bull.

  Although we’d easily booked a car and were now zipping up the interstate, my mood was tense. Sure, I was worried about my parents and, yes, I was uncomfortable with this awareness of Beckett, but it was Arch who’d plagued my restless dreams. In la-la land I’d hit him with everything I’d written in my diary before I’d collapsed on that hotel bed. In la-la land, as in reality, he calmly listened to my rant, pointing out I was the one who ended the affair and, had I left him a message about my mom, bloody hell, aye, he would have been on the next plane. In la-la land, as in reality—or at least my old reality—we ended up rolling around on the floor making crazy, heated whoopee.

  This morning I was more vexed with him than yesterday. I refused to analyze the tightness in my chest. “Bastard.”

  “Me or the driver who just cut me off?” Beckett asked.

  Arch, I wanted to say but didn’t. “He could have at least used his turn signal.” A calculated guess, since I’d been zoning.

  Hands steady on the steering wheel, Beckett just smiled. He’d insisted on driving, even though we were on my home turf. The man was a control freak—add that to the list—but I didn’t mind. Not in this instance. Too much travel and anxiety in too few days, coupled with the tail end of a cold, made me grumpy. I slurped more Dunkin’ Donuts java, gunning for a caffeine jolt.

  “Maybe you should ease up. That’s your third cup in two hours.”

  “I need all the bean juice I can chug. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Anxious. Except for a quickie weekender last year when I attended my brother’s wedding, I haven’t been home in three years. How awful is that?”

  He didn’t comment.

  “My track record wasn’t much better before that. It used to be because of work. Either I was booked or, if I wasn’t, I was afraid to leave for fear of a last-minute offer. In show biz, when it rains, it pours—you take it when you can get it.”

  “Unstable business. I’m sure they understand.”

  “Not really. Mom never approved of my performing for a living. She wanted me to go to college. Wanted me to have something solid to fall back on. Logically, she was right. I’d be flipping burgers right now if it weren’t for Chameleon. It’s just she wanted me to be something I’m not.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Normal.”

  He laughed and the tension in my jaw eased. He wasn’t laughing at me. He got why my mom’s vision was absurd. He got me.

  I ignored the warm fuzzies, sipped more coffee and studied my boss—make that boyfriend—over the rim of my foam cup. Beckett was certainly attractive, though in a quiet way. He didn’t ooze charisma like Arch, but he oozed confidence. He was talented and nice—mostly—and smart. A flipping government agent, for crying out loud.

  “Do I have doughnut crumbs on my face?” he asked.

  “What? No. Why?”

  “You’re staring.”

  I blushed. “I was just…I was wondering…do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. You.”

  “I mean, for real.”

  “No one steady.” He cast me a sidelong glance. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “So you said.”

  “It’s just that I’d prefer not to kiss someone else’s boyfriend.”

  Another glance. “You’re going to kiss me?”

  “When I have to.”

  He shook his head. “Good thing I don’t have a fragile ego.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant it will be easier to pretend I’m hot for you if—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  I pressed back in my seat, overwhelmed with a wave of déjà vu.

  Arch and I had traded similar words the first day we met. I’d been hired to play his wife, only I’d thought it was a gig, not a mission. Pretending to be hot for the man had been cake since I wasn’t pretending. With Beckett, I’d definitely be acting. Although it wouldn’t be a huge challenge since I wasn’t exactly repulsed by the man. An understatement, and one I chose not to dwell on.

  I swallowed. “So there’s no one special.”

  He focused on the road. “I wish there was.”

  Okay, that was sweet. That was…dangerous. I focused on my coffee instead of his handsome profile. It would be weird to kiss Beckett. Not just because he was my boss but because he was Arch’s friend. And because I had feelings for Arch, although I kept trying to squash them down. And—gads—what if Beckett’s kiss tripped my heart the same as Arch’s? Wouldn’t that be a mess? Although it could be a blessing. Maybe I needed a distraction. Maybe the fling with Arch had merely been a warm-up for the real thing with…someone else.

  Maybe you should forget about your love life and focus on your future as a Chameleon. Face it—mixing the two is a recipe for disaster. Beckett’s said so himself more than once.

  Right.

  It’s the reason you broke off with Arch to begin with, right?

  Mostly.

  So you better hope to hell Beckett doesn’t make your heart flutter.

  When, I wondered, had my life gotten so complicated? Although complicated beat depressing. Or boring.

  My temples throbbed with a tension headache. “You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin, would you?”

  He pulled a travel packet from his pants pocket and passed it to me. His lip twitched. “You don’t get looped on Tylenol, do you?”

  “No,” I said, cursing my heated cheeks. I ripped open the packet and swallowed two caplets, wondering what kind of a man carried aspirin in his pocket. Did Beckett suffer from chronic headaches? Migraines?

  “Sure are a lot of cornfields around here,” he said before I could ask.

  “This is farm country.”

  “I can smell that.”

 
I wrinkled my nose, smiled. “Pigs.”

  “Your family doesn’t—”

  “No. We live in town. Speaking of—make that next right.” My adrenaline spiked as he veered off the highway and onto the narrow gravel road I’d traveled a bazillion times in my youth. The rental car’s tires bumped in and out of potholes and crunched over rocks as we zipped past pastures, fields, barns and hundred-year-old farmhouses.

  “I’m seeing lots of tomatoes—”

  “Soybeans.”

  “—and towers—”

  “Silos.”

  “But no town on the horizon,” Beckett said. “Sure you remember the way? It’s been three years, after all.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m taking you the back way.”

  “So is Greenville like Hooterville?” he asked, tongue in cheek.

  “A Green Acres reference? I’m shocked. Can’t imagine you watching hokey sitcoms. You seem more like a CNN kind of guy. Anyway, yes, Greenville’s a speck on the map. Hope you weren’t expecting signal for your cell or access to the Internet.”

  He frowned.

  “Kidding,” I said. “Well, about the splotchy Internet access anyway.”

  He flipped open his phone, noted the signal. Or absence thereof. “Shit.”

  I grinned. “Sorry you came?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.” God help me, I meant it.

  AS ANXIOUS AND distracted as I’d been for the last twenty-four hours, the moment I saw the sign—Greenville, Population 10,200—I pulled it together. Call me calm and confident. Call me motivated. I fully intended to solve the mystery of my mom’s peculiar behavior and to reunite my parents within a week’s time, if not sooner. What’s more, I intended to fool my family and my drama-club alumni into thinking that, though divorced, I was currently and blissfully involved with Milo Beckett, owner of a retro bar known as the Chameleon Club, where I’d recently landed a house gig. The more we stick to the truth, he’d said, the more they’ll buy it. I’m thinking he also figured the less the chance I’d crack out of turn. All because he thought I was a terrible liar. Arch thought so, too. I’d show them—or at least Beckett—and I’d secure my place on the team. Until you get better at lying, I’m not putting you in the field. Yeah, boy, watch my smoke.

  I directed Beckett to make a right onto Main Street. “Our house is four blocks down on the left. Two-story. Redbrick, green trim.”

  “You just described half of the houses on this street.” He glanced around. “Quiet. Scenic. Nice. What are those, maple trees?”

  “Mostly. A few oak. All ancient.” They lined both sides of Main, along with an occasional gas lamp. Greenville was big on retaining certain historical aspects. Several properties had wrought iron fences, and the sidewalk—buckled and chipped—was constructed of brick. Hazardous but charming.

  Like Arch.

  Stop thinking about him.

  “More Mayberry than Hooterville,” Beckett said.

  Another sixties sitcom reference. “Didn’t realize you were a TV addict.”

  “I’ve been battling insomnia lately. Three words. Nick at Nite.”

  Fatigue headaches, was my first thought. That explained the Tylenol. Maybe. My second thought was that we had something in common aside from both being dumped by our spouses. A fondness for classic TV. It occurred to me that I knew even less about Beckett than I knew about Arch, and since I knew next to nothing about the sexy Scot, that was saying a lot. I massaged an ache in my chest.

  Stop thinking about Arch. Right.

  “What’s up with the insomnia?” I asked.

  “Restless.”

  Duh. “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you’re lonely.” Sleeping alone after sharing a bed with someone for umpteen years was a difficult adjustment. Been there, experienced that.

  “Maybe we should get into character. This is your block. Which is your house?”

  I pointed. “That one.” Stage jitters attacked as he swung into the driveway and I prepared for a humdinger performance. I methodically abandoned the real me, the me who felt as though she was returning home a failure—no husband, no agent, no Oscar or Grammy—and channeled the me I wanted to be. A confident, adventurous woman pursuing a new career. “I can do this,” I said to myself as Beckett rounded the car and helped me out.

  “We can do this,” he said with a reassuring smile.

  I took the hand he offered, my concocted persona seeping into my bones as our fingers interlaced. I didn’t feel a zing or a zap, but I did feel the support of a friend. Warm fuzzies. Fuzzy fur. Unless the gorilla was docile, Jayne chanted in my head. Then the dream was forecasting a new and unusual friend.

  Then where did that leave Arch?

  I choked back unexpected tears, assuring myself that the bizarre reaction was due to my conflicting emotions regarding my parents and their troubles and not because of the confusion regarding my feelings for Arch and Beckett.

  Yeah. That was it.

  We scaled the cement steps, my pulse racing as we crossed the porch and I prepared to knock. Even though I’d grown up here, I didn’t feel comfortable just walking in. It’s not as though Mom expected me. But then the front door swung in and there she stood. At least I think it was her. The judgmental blue eyes and pinched mouth were familiar. As for the rest—holy makeover! I’d never seen Mom in jeans, let alone with her shirttails hanging out. She’d knotted a navy-blue scarf at her neck and—color me shocked—after fifteen years of the same look, she’d allowed her stylist to dye and cut her hair. Goodbye dull gray bob, hello soft blond pixie. She looked at least ten years younger than her sixty-three, and my first thought was, Oh, my God, Christopher’s right. She’s having an affair! She cashed in those bonds to fund a new Marilyn Parish—new wardrobe, new lifestyle and, sweet lord, maybe that trip to Mexico.

  “You could have prepared me, Evelyn,” she said. “I raised you better than that.”

  Some things never change. My foot wasn’t even in the door and I’d already disappointed her. I fumbled for an excuse. I thought Christopher might have mentioned it wouldn’t wash since he’d called me on the sly. I settled for, “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “An impromptu visit from you is one thing,” she said. “But to say nothing of your…friend.”

  “I’m sorry.” It reminded me of the time I invited Mindy Klinger, my best friend in grade school, to sleep over without asking permission. Jeez, Louise, if I wanted to feel younger, all I had to do was come home. With each ticking second I regressed another ten years.

  “And what’s with this getup?” she asked, motioning to my clothes. “You’re dressed like a twelve-year-old, for pity’s sake.”

  At this rate, by dinnertime I’d be back in the womb.

  I wanted to explain that my retro cartoon T-shirt was actually fashionable and acceptable for someone my age, but I was too mortified to speak.

  Beckett seized the awkward moment, releasing my hand to shake Mom’s. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Parish. I’m—”

  “The baron’s personal aide. Yes, I know. Please call me Marilyn, and welcome.” She pumped his hand, then waved us inside. “Get off the porch, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want the neighbors to talk.”

  Talk about what? I wanted to ask but didn’t. My mind was stuck on that other part. The baron part. But I didn’t ask about that, either, because I couldn’t get a word in.

  “I’m beside myself, Evelyn. Nobility. Here in Greenville. In this house. Sitting on my sofa. If I’d known, I could have at least shopped for Earl Grey. The only tea I had to offer was Lipton. Lipton, for pity’s sake.”

  Her rambling stupefied me, but then we stepped into the living room and it all made sense. Strike that. It made no sense at all.

  Arch.

  My heart pounded as I drank in the delicious sight of him. He’d shaved his cropped beard into a trimmed goatee, sophisticated yet roguish. Dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt and
a striped black-and-gray tie, he looked like a cross between a Wall Street tycoon and a model for GQ magazine. I’d seen him in a suit before, but he’d been disguised as a geeky sixtysomething yachting snob—pot belly strapped under his oxford shirt, ascot knotted at his neck, gray hair, fake jowls. The man walking toward me was all Arch. All sexy, all charismatic, all hunkified.

  Zowie.

  He took me in his arms, enveloping me in his aura of potent machismo. Zing. Zap. My body pulsed with equal parts desire, confusion, relief and rage. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to punch him.

  “Hold that thought,” he whispered in my ear as if reading my scrambled mind. “Feels like we’ve been apart three years instead of three days, lass,” he said loud enough for all to hear, which made me think it was an act. He excelled at manipulating people, and just now, for whatever reason, he wanted my mom to believe he’d missed me. If I weren’t savvy to his charms, I’d believe it myself. But he hadn’t missed me enough to return my call or to be available when I needed his advice. Or to invite me to return his one miserably impersonal message so we could have a decent conversation.

  It hit me then. Like a flipping pie in the face. Arch wasn’t the one having trouble with our new “friend” status. It was me. My overreaction to our lack of contact hadn’t been one of a friend but a lover. Crap. I’d declared our fling over. Trouble was I wasn’t over Arch.

  Okay, this sucked.

  He brushed his mouth across my lips, escalating suckdom to new heights. I was too gaga over that brief, body-tingling kiss to speak, although I did sigh. And I think my knees sagged. Beckett no doubt noticed. Not that he’d believed me when I’d said I’d gotten Arch out of my system. But this was just proof that I’d lied and that my bluffing skills needed work. Double crap.

  Not only that, but this blew Beckett’s initial plan sky-high. How could he be my boyfriend if Arch was my boyfriend? And why exactly had Arch stepped up to the boyfriend plate? And what was with the baron angle?

  I glanced sideways and, though the agent’s expression betrayed nothing, I knew he wondered the same thing. I found it hard to believe that he’d known Arch would be here. Nothing up to this point supported that theory. Nope. I suspected he was as surprised as me. We both held silent, waiting for the cagey Scot to show his cards.